


Something Drastic

by sylviarachel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bickering, Bisexual John, Depression, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, I'm Sorry, John knows he's not a psychiatrist, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, UST, but he can't help himself, discussions of mental health that are probably a bit not good, eventually, everyone has trouble talking about their feelings, i don't know where this came from, negative self-talk, too many parentheses, tw: depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylviarachel/pseuds/sylviarachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John keeps talking, but Sherlock tunes out the words. He would never admit it, but there are times when John’s voice makes things seem slightly less hateful. There are other times, when he’s bored and everything is hateful, when it helps a little bit to pick a fight with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Drastic

The murder DI Bradstreet called Sherlock in on turned out to be hatefully, frustratingly pedestrian, utterly dull, and Sherlock may possibly have overdone the contempt for Bradstreet’s pathetic excuse for a forensics team (Anderson and, impossibly, _someone worse_ ), because John said, “Sherlock,” and Bradstreet’s DS (whose name Sherlock has already deleted) gave him the kind of look that one of his primary-school teachers gave him the time he brought a dead hedgehog he’d found on his way to school and asked where he could dissect it, and there is no satisfaction in solving such a pathetically uninteresting case, and what was the point of even leaving the flat today?

So now they are on their way home, and John is suggesting places to stop for dinner – “You’ve solved the case, Sherlock, you owe your transport some fuel, and I’m starving” – and Sherlock is sulking, because everything is _hateful, hateful, hateful_ – the case, Bradstreet and his team (who have achieved the impossible by making Sherlock long for Sally Donovan), the idiotic murderer, the cab they’re sitting in, the traffic, the aggressively cheerful weather – and John says, “I know that one wasn’t much of a challenge for you, but look on the bright side.”

Sherlock refuses to dignify this with a response; he can’t even muster the requisite kinetic energy to tell John not to be an idiot. John keeps talking, but Sherlock tunes out the words. He would never admit it, but there are times when John’s voice makes things seem slightly less hateful.

Not, apparently, today.

The cab turns into Baker Street and pulls up in front of 221. Sherlock slams out of it and stalks across the pavement, scowling.

John has to pay the cabbie, and by the time he catches Sherlock up, he’s beginning to get annoyed, which affords Sherlock a small amount of savage satisfaction. There are other times, when he’s bored and everything is hateful, when it helps a little bit to pick a fight with John.

But John (who is entirely predictable, except when he isn’t) is apparently not having that today.

“Look,” he says, hanging up his jacket. “Just because you didn’t get your due measure of adulation—”

“I don’t do this for the adulation,” Sherlock snaps.

“Of course you don’t,” John says, calmly, and that has _got_ to be mockery, nobody ever believes Sherlock when he says this, but surely straightforward, sentimental John lacks the capacity to make sarcasm sound so _earnest_? (Ordinarily, John’s sarcasm is approximately as subtle as a wood-axe.) “But presumably the adulation doesn’t hurt.”

Sherlock gives John his trademark Withering Glare, but either Sherlock’s losing his touch or John has become immune to his Looks, because he grins, unrepentant (infuriating, beautiful), and continues, “Oh, I know you mainly do it to keep that big brain of yours occupied—” he prods Sherlock’s temple gently with his forefinger; Sherlock irritably bats his hand away— “but come on, you know you enjoy the bit where you explain how it was done and everyone’s in awe of how clever you are.”

Sherlock scowls.

“Everyone’s not _in awe_ ,” he says, aiming for dismissive but not, to his annoyance, getting all the way past bitter. He paces, chair to sofa to window. “Everyone’s repelled, or relieved that it’s over. Everyone’s thinking, _My God, what a freak_ , and _Oh, thank God he’s solved it, now he’ll finally go away_. You saw them today, you must have.”

John doesn’t reply. After a moment Sherlock turns round to look at him.

“You really honestly believe that,” John says. His expression is … stunned, Sherlock decides, is the most appropriate descriptor.

“Obviously.” Really, how can John not see it? “Surely even you must have—”

“Sherlock.” John cuts him off, striding across the room in his most Captain-John-Watson-I’m-in-charge-here manner (why, why is that so _alluring_?) until he’s so close that Sherlock can no longer ignore him. “That is _utter_ _bollocks_. Okay, I’ll grant you Anderson, but Anderson’s a twat, so he doesn’t count.”

Sherlock feels a small smile tug up one corner of his mouth: it’s always satisfying to hear John give Anderson the disdain he so richly deserves but John is normally too polite (generous, considerate) to express.

“Also, I’ll grant you Sebastian Wilkes, but he also doesn’t count, because he’s a twat _and_ a fucking arrogant toe-rag.”

Sherlock almost can’t help really smiling at that. John’s actually rather good at verbal abuse once he gets going.

“Greg doesn’t think you’re a freak,” John says firmly, and starts ticking names off on his (strong, capable) fingers. “Greg likes you. I don’t think Sally Donovan really thinks so, either, she just says it out of habit -- she was gutted when you … when it happened, she’d wanted you held accountable but she’d never wanted you _dead_. Dimmock and Hopkins don’t think you’re a freak. Molly doesn’t, and Mrs Hudson doesn’t, and Angelo doesn’t, and Mike Stamford doesn’t.” He pauses, his gaze on Sherlock’s face suddenly (heart-stoppingly) intent. “ _I_ don’t think you’re a freak, Sherlock. I think you’re my best friend, and I think you’re extraordinary.”

“But that’s only because _you’re_ extraordinary,” Sherlock says, before he can stop himself.

John drops his gaze, scuffs the toe of his left shoe along the carpet. “I’m really not, Sherlock.”

This is such a thoroughly idiotic statement that Sherlock simply can’t let it pass. “Of course you are,” he says. “Don’t be an idiot, John. You’re not clever the way I am, but you’re much better at _people_ , you don’t have to reason them out, you just _understand_ them, as though that were _easy_. You’re not ordinary or, or _safe_ , but you make people think you are, and then they want to tell you things. And it’s not just you pretending to like them, to sympathize with them, you actually _do_ , and it ought to make you completely useless and inefficient but it doesn’t, it _doesn’t_ , it makes you … not _brilliant_ , it’s … something better. Something _John._ And you’re always asking exactly the perfectly wrong question, the one that makes me ask the right one. You—”

“Sherlock.” There’s astonishment and disbelief and, strangely, laughter in John’s voice, in his face. “Sherlock, stop.”

Sherlock lurches to a halt, as breathless as if he’d been running flat out. John’s eyes are very blue. “Why?” he says.

“Because,” John says, sounding a bit breathless too, “if you keep on telling me how wonderful I am, I may end up doing something drastic.”

“Something drastic?”

“Huh. You’re repeating things.” John’s eyes (blue like oceans, blue like an evening sky) hold Sherlock’s, hypnotic; his head tilts, and he smiles.

The atmosphere in the flat, so comfortable only a few minutes ago, now seems electrically charged (which is impossible, of course, but for some reason reminding himself of that doesn’t make the feeling go away).

“I,” Sherlock manages to say. “Yes. Um.”

“And now you’re getting inarticulate. Sherlock—” John leans infinitesimally closer, and Sherlock holds his breath.

Then John pauses, bites his lower lip -- a sign of indecision (a sight that does strange things to Sherlock’s pulse rate, and makes him want to touch parts of John that he’s fairly certain he shouldn’t touch without explicit permission) -- and then, abruptly, turns on his heel and marches into the kitchen.

The air around Sherlock seems suddenly very empty, and he stands there for a minute, feeling … bereft.

“John,” he says to John’s tensely squared shoulders and straightened spine. What he wants to say is _Don’t go_ , and _Come back_ , and _Please_. But what comes out instead is, “I know a good Lebanese place in Soho.”

John comes back out of the kitchen; he’s smiling, and although the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, it’s better. “Well,” he says. “What are we waiting for?”


	2. Strong Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But Sherlock clearly can’t stop, though John’s starting to suspect he’d like to; the bitter words keep rolling off his tongue, his voice low but the tone so poisonous that people at nearby tables start casting apprehensive glances their way.

Sherlock is talkative and fidgety over dinner, a level of fidgety which would normally drive John a bit mad, but on the other hand he’s also scarfing down _mezze_ like there’s no tomorrow, and John’s not about to interfere with Sherlock Holmes _actually eating a balanced meal_. Well, balanced-ish: there are several food groups on the table, anyway. Also, _talkative and fidgety_ means _not sulking_ , and Sherlock is – John’s willing to admit this to himself, if not to anyone else – beautiful when he’s being enthusiastic. And also, the food really is very good.

There’s a brief silence, and John realizes Sherlock’s waiting for him to say something. “Hmm?” he says.

Sherlock scowls at him. “I _said_ , you should try the _ftayer bi spanegh_. Fouad is famous for them.”

“Oh.” John surveys the array of plates and bowls and platters on the table between them and finally spots the little spinach pastries near Sherlock’s left elbow. He snags one and bites into it, and sure enough it’s seriously delicious. “’s good. Very good,” he says, grinning, and eats the rest. Then he licks his fingers and reaches for another one – the hell with his cholesterol level tonight.

He’s finished his second pastry and licking his fingers again by the time it occurs to him that Sherlock’s stopped monologuing and started staring. And not staring out of the nearest window, or staring at any of the numerous other people crammed into the restaurant, or staring off into space at some random spot over John’s right shoulder: no, he’s staring _right at John_.

And specifically, John’s left index finger.

John blinks, suddenly extremely self-conscious, and removes the finger from his mouth, and wipes his hands almost furtively on the napkin spread across his lap.

“So,” he says, because it seems like someone’s got to say _something_ at this point, “what does Fouad owe you for?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows fly up, the right one vanishing under his fringe, and he says, “What makes you think he owes me for anything?”

“Well.” John hesitates. “It’s. It’s sort of … it’s your thing, isn’t it. Places where someone owes you something. And Fouad was awfully … effusive.”

He realizes his mistake, too late, when Sherlock’s expression of surprise curls and hardens into a sneer. “Oh, of course,” he says, in that voice he almost never uses on John anymore. John winces. “Because nobody could _possibly_ be friendly unless they _owe_ me something. Not to _me._ Not to the _freak_.”

“Sherlock—”

“Well, which is it, John?” Sherlock’s tone is jeering and borderline manic, but his eyes are deep wells of hurt. John imagines this is what he’d feel like if he’d just kicked a puppy. “An hour ago you were trying to convince me that everyone likes me really.” The mincing, saccharine delivery of the last four words makes John’s teeth ache. “You can’t have it both ways.”

“Sherlock.” John lays both hands flat on the table, then puts one back in his lap when he realizes that makes it look like he’s preparing to flee. “Sherlock, stop. Just … stop. Okay?”

But Sherlock clearly can’t, though John’s starting to suspect he’d like to; the bitter words keep rolling off his tongue, his voice low but the tone so poisonous that people at nearby tables start casting apprehensive glances their way. What’s happened to the man who, not two hours ago, was telling John _you’re extraordinary_ , was saying such lovely things so earnestly, so intently, that John almost wasn’t able to stop himself from—

_Oh._

Oh, surely not. Sherlock isn’t— Sherlock doesn’t—

John’s not – as he’s found himself repeatedly telling people since he started hanging about with Sherlock – actually gay, but he’s not exactly straight, either. He reckons that if he were to make a bar graph of all the people he’s ever been attracted to, it’d come out about five women to every one man; the graph of people he’s actually got anywhere with would be even more skewed, but would still represent a non-trivial number of blokes. So he’s actually a bit surprised by how long it took him, over the first months of their … whatever this is, to disentangle the threads of _flatmate_ and _friend_ and _provider of adrenaline fixes_ and _sodding mad bastard_ and recognize that, yes, he was in fact pretty seriously interested in Sherlock as _person I’d really like to take to bed_. And by that time it was too late, on a number of fronts – Sherlock had already made it too plain he wasn’t interested, and John had said out loud too many times to too many people that he wasn’t, either, and then, just as John was consoling himself with the idea that it wasn’t _him_ , Sherlock really just wasn’t interested in sex or relationships, along had come Irene Adler.

Irene Adler, who flustered and fascinated Sherlock, who was clever and beautiful and urbane and just generally all the things John wasn’t -- including female, which John had previously half-convinced himself wasn’t important but now seemed like it probably was – and who fucking broke Sherlock’s heart when she died the first time and seems to have remained an object of obsession even now she’s really dead (John told Sherlock Mycroft’s cover story, yes, but he’s under no illusions that Sherlock actually bought it). It’s always been Irene – or the idea of Irene -- that Sherlock wants. Not John.

Never John.

But now John’s starting to think maybe he’s misread the clues – God knows it wouldn’t be the first time. That he really wasn’t imagining what he thought he saw and heard, back at the flat. That he maybe should’ve stepped closer instead of stepping away.

John surveys their half-eaten meal. He’s not hungry anymore, and Sherlock has clearly abandoned the field, and whichever way this conversation goes it’s not one John wants to have in the middle of a crowded restaurant in Soho. So he takes a wild guess at the bill, digs some notes out of his wallet and tucks them under the mostly-empty platter of _tabbouleh_ , and climbs to his feet.

Sherlock goes very still, staring up at him with another of those weirdly contradictory expressions – top lip curled in a sneer, brows drawn down but eyes wide and pleading.

“Sherlock,” John says, speaking to those eyes and ignoring the rest of it. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

And Sherlock stands up so quickly that his chair almost goes over.


	3. Tooth and Claw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It makes no sense to feel a failure because he can’t turn back time; but the creature with the claws and teeth doesn’t care about making sense, it hisses the words at him, always so sure of itself: _If you were really clever, you could. If you really loved him, you would._

For quite a while after they leave the restaurant, John doesn’t say anything at all, and Sherlock doesn’t know what to make of that. He so often doesn’t know what to make of John, and most of the time this is part of the reason John is so fascinating; right now, though, Sherlock is filled with self-loathing (why did he say those things to John, _why_ ) and sluggish self-disgust and a cold dark dread that this time he’s gone too far. The rational part of his brain scoffs at this – if John could forgive him (eventually, and after some physical violence and a number of extremely uncomfortable conversations) for playing dead for two years, surely a bit of ugly language won’t be his bridge too far. But this has been one of the dark days, the days when Sherlock’s mind turns on itself with teeth and claws and poisoned arrows, and the rational part can get no purchase.

And John has been … different, since Sherlock came back. Oh, he’s the same in the ways that matter – he’s brave and quick and loyal, he’s a solid, dependable presence at Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s Sherlock’s friend. But his silences have a different quality now; his eyes are sad more often, and he teases Sherlock less. It wasn’t until they were back in the Baker Street flat together that Sherlock realized how much his memories of John had sustained him during his long exile, or what those years have done to John. He wishes he could fix it somehow, could turn back time and find some other way, one that ends with Moriarty gone and John safe and happy and Sherlock … better. It makes no sense to feel a failure because he can’t turn back time; but the creature with the claws and teeth doesn’t care about making sense, it hisses the words at him, always so sure of itself: _If you were really clever, you could. If you really loved him, you would._

“Shut up,” he hisses back, fisting his hands in the pockets of his coat because he can’t bear it, this may be the last time he walks around London with John beside him and he wants to remember it as it could have been, not stunted and poisoned like this. “Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_ ”

Someone’s hand closes around his right biceps. He stops abruptly and looks down, miserably, at John’s baffled (beloved) face looking up.

“Sherlock?” John says. “Did you know you’re doing that out loud?”

Sherlock laughs. It’s an ugly sound, and he’s not surprised when John rocks back on his heels; but John doesn’t let go of his arm. Instead, he keeps hold of it as he urges Sherlock into forward motion again.

They’re walking up Greek Street, and instead of skirting around Soho Square John takes them into it. Sherlock’s mental map re-plots their route straight through the square and out into Soho Street, but John leaves the footpath and makes for an unoccupied bench. He pushes Sherlock down onto it, releases his arm, and stands in front of him, military at-ease (which in this case involves no ease at all; John’s body is as tightly strung as Sherlock’s).

“Okay,” John says. “Okay. Sherlock. You need to tell me, because I’m not clever like you, what the—” he visibly suppresses an expletive— “what exactly is going on in your head right now.”

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry, and he’s not even sure whether it’s the black creature or his long-suppressed libido that’s making his pulse pound so loudly in his ears. The sound is like _John, John, John_. “I,” he manages to say. “John, I don’t—”

“If I sit down here,” John says, indicating a spot on Sherlock’s right, “will you stay put?”

Sherlock nods.

“Okay.” John lowers himself onto the bench. He sits forward, elbows on knees, not looking at Sherlock – because he’s too angry/disappointed/disgusted, or because he’s learnt that confession is easier when you don’t have to look your victim in the eyes? “Talk me through it, yeah?”

Sherlock slumps down on the bench, legs extended, head tilted back. How can he possibly put it into words – the claws and teeth and poison, the way John makes him want things he can’t have, the way he wants to make everything the way it was, how much he hates that he can’t – and what would John think of him if he could?

So for a long time he doesn’t say anything. And John waits patiently beside him.

But John won’t wait forever, Sherlock knows, and so finally he takes a deep breath and says, “I’m sorry, John.”

Then he stalls: where to go from here?

After a moment, John huffs a laugh. “What for?” he says.

Taken aback, Sherlock says, “Everything.” And when John’s silence doesn’t get any less expectant, “Everything I said tonight. I take all of it back. Unreservedly.”

John sits up. “Everything?” he says. “Because I quite liked some of the things you said earlier, back at the flat.”

Sherlock thinks back. “Oh,” he says. “No. Not those things. That bit was all true.” He swallows; John isn’t likely to want to hear this, not now, and he hates how needy and pathetic it makes him sound, but he’s going to say it anyway. “You _are_ extraordinary, John. When I was … away … the worst thing, the very worst thing, was not having you with me. I’m someone different with you, someone _better_.” John is still there, breathing beside him, so he goes on, reckless: “But I _want_ things when I’m with you. I want …”

 _You want things you don’t deserve,_ the black beast hisses in his head. Sherlock bends his head forward, fists his hands in his hair and pulls, hard; the pain distracts him momentarily, gives him something to do besides listening to it.

But then he needs to listen, because John is talking to him. “I meant what I said, too, Sherlock,” he says. “You _have_ got friends, if you’ll just let them be your friends. You’re only as alone as you want to be.”

Hands, John’s hands, gently cover Sherlock’s and loosen his fingers from his hair.

“What I didn’t mean,” John says, “when I asked about Fouad, I didn’t mean what you thought I meant. It was-- I was making conversation, because you were, well, I was-- Oh, sod it. I’m no good at this either.”

Curious, Sherlock raises his head. “What are you no good at?”

“All that stuff,” John says, “all those horrible things you said about me and everyone else we know, that wasn’t really about _them_ at all, was it? Or about me? It was about you. When you’re having one of those days when you don’t like yourself much, you turn your negative self-talk back on everyone around you.”

“My _what_?” Sherlock screws up his face at John’s pop-psychology jargon.

“Negative self-talk,” John repeats patiently. “You know. The black thing in your head that tells you you’re a horrible person and no one will ever love you.”

Sherlock stares at him. How does he know about the creature with the claws and teeth?

And then he realizes that John is still holding his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a lot darker than I was expecting when I started :S


	4. Down to My Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let me guess,” Johnsays, gently. “It says _freak_ , and _sociopath_ , and _you don’t have friends, you’ll never have friends_.”  
>  “How did you know?” Sherlock whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter discusses clinical depression and the treatment thereof in a way that, while based in part on personal experience, may be A Bit Not Good (YMMV). I apologize in advance.

“Sherlock,” John says. He’s holding Sherlock’s hands – in a public park – which should feel awkward but somehow doesn’t, and Sherlock is staring at him in (in John’s view) completely unjustified amazement. “Christ, Sherlock , did you think it was just you?”

Sherlock swallows. “It talks to me,” he says. “On the dark days, there are two parts of my brain, and one’s _me_ , it thinks and reasons and observes, but it’s … muffled. Not sharp, not clear. And the other part is … it’s got sharp teeth and sharp claws and it’s dripping with poison and it talks to me, it’s got a voice like a snake, and it says … it says …”

John can almost feel them, the teeth and the claws. His own inner critic, on dark days (and he had a lot of dark days while Sherlock was dead, not to mention all the drab dark days before Sherlock), tends to speak in his father’s voice, which isn’t exactly coincidence, since it says a lot of the same things Harold Watson used to say; leave it to Sherlock’s brain to be unnecessarily melodramatic. “Let me guess,” he says, gently. “It says _freak_ , and _sociopath_ , and _you don’t have friends, you’ll never have friends_. It reminds you of every time you’ve ever failed at anything. It tells you you’re not as clever as you think you are, and it says you don’t deserve to be happy.”

Sherlock nods. His eyes are huge and dark. “How did you know?” he whispers.

“Because,” John says, “I _listen_ to you when you talk.” Then he thinks maybe that was a bit uncalled for, and adds, “And because I’ve got some personal experience with depression.”

“Depression?” Sherlock makes that _psychological-terminology-makes-me-sneeze_ face again.

“Yeah,” John says. “I haven’t got the teeth and claws, I’ve just got my dad telling me what a mess I’ve made of my life.”

Sherlock bristles indignantly, and John’s so overwhelmed with affection that he has to keep talking about something else in order to keep it inside.

“You, me and a load of other people in this city have got this thing in common, mate. Fortunately we’ve got access to a much better treatment than most of them.”

Sherlock blinks. “We have?”

John grins, then, and is surprised to find that the grin is real. He lets go of one of Sherlock’s hands so he can wave vaguely around them – at Soho Square, at passing pedestrians, at London-at-night in general. “We’re the consulting detective and his faithful blogger,” he says. “We solve crimes. We have _adventures_. People try to kill us. Best cognitive-behavioural therapy ever invented.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, and John hastens to add, “I’m joking, Sherlock, of course I’m joking,” because he knows a number of psychiatric house officers who would be _completely appalled_ (quite rightly, too) by what he’s just said. Even though, for Sherlock and him, it’s a lot more true than not. “But we’re just mad enough that we love it.”

To his enormous relief, Sherlock’s mouth quirks up. “We do,” he says.

Then he scowls, and John knows he’s remembering today’s apparently deeply disappointing case.

“Look,” John says, urgently. Sherlock was smiling, or nearly; John can’t bear to see him fall into the pit again. And suddenly he sees a way to work round to the other thing he’s been trying to say and failing. “Look, the cases can’t all be good ones, can they, but even when we haven’t got a good case, at least we’ve still got each other.”

Sherlock tilts his head, his eyebrows still drawn together. “There’s something else I need to say,” he says.

“Me first,” says John, because if he doesn’t get this over right now he’s not sure he can do it at all. “Er. Please?”

Sherlock nods, but his mouth twists unhappily, and John almost loses his nerve. He takes courage from the fact that Sherlock is still letting John hold his hand. Although maybe that only means he’s forgotten about it. _Just transport._

“I,” John says, “I … back at the flat … when I said, _stop_ …”

“You said you might end up doing something drastic,” Sherlock says. He sounds … not repulsed. Curious, maybe. “Are you finally going to tell me what you meant by that?”

“Um.” This suddenly seems like a _very_ bad idea. But at least, if it all goes horribly wrong, they’ll both have the whole of W1 to wander around in before slinking back to their respective bedrooms. “I thought … maybe … I could show you.”

“I’m sure that would be … informative,” Sherlock says, and he sits up straight, attentive and interested.

“ _Informative_?” John sputters. “Oh, for—”

And he fists his free hand in the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket and pulls his flatmate’s startled face down to his.

Sherlock’s left hand tightens reflexively around John’s right; after a moment his right hand comes up and curves around the back of John’s neck. His lips, stiff with startlement at first, go warm and pliant, his wide shocked eyes drift closed, and then he’s kissing John back, a bit short on skill but very long on enthusiasm, and all of a sudden John’s mad, ridiculous, probably very bad idea seems like sodding _genius_.

Someone walking by calls, “Get a room, you lot!”

John freezes mid-snog, excruciatingly self-conscious again suddenly; Sherlock pulls away an inch or two and frowns at him. “We’ve got a room, John,” he points out, in his best Reasonable Voice. “We’ve got a whole _flat_.”

And John can’t help it: he laughs and laughs, and then Sherlock is laughing too, it’s Buckingham Palace all over again except they’ve both got clothes on this time.

“Feeling a bit better now?” John asks, several minutes later, when they’ve both calmed down somewhat.

“A bit, yes,” Sherlock says.

And John, remembering: “What was the other thing you needed to say?”

It’s dark and the lamplight in the square is a funny colour, so John could be wrong, but he’s pretty sure Sherlock is blushing. It’s adorable. “I think,” Sherlock says, “I think it might be somewhat redundant. Now.”

“Oh.” A weight he didn’t know he was carrying has lifted from John’s shoulders. “Oh. So … the things you said you want, when you’re with me … they’re … those kinds of things?”

Sherlock smiles at him, the real, Sherlock-is-actually-happy smile. He stands up, reaches down to take John’s hand again, and says, “John, let’s go home now.”

And there are still all the unresolved problems, they’ll always have their dark days and this is never going to be easy, but it’s already _so very much better_ than it’s been in … well, forever, really.

John smiles back, a smile that goes all the way down to his bones, and says, “Oh, God, yes.”


End file.
